enraged.”
“And I got the scars to prove it!” Sean laughed and ran his finger across a small white line on his elbow.
“Who’s Herman?”
Cormac put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his enormous thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you this way, honey, but you’re married to him.”
“Herman Munster ?”
“Geez.” Cormac’s face fell in dismay. “Didn’t take you long to make that leap.”
“Man, it’s too obvious!” Sean cackled.
Barb wrung her hands in a spot-on Mrs. Munster imitation and said, “Oh, Herman!” Both men nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.
After dinner they sat on the low couches eating ice cream out of porcelain bowls with Crème glacée in curvy cobalt script around the rims. So un-Cormac-like. Sean grinned—innocently he thought—but Cormac made sure to mention they were a wedding present.
When Sean rose to take his empty bowl to the kitchen, he miscalculated how much effort it would take to hoist himself out of the squishy cushions. His back clenched in response, and he found himself falling backward into the couch. He was thankful that he made no embarrassing grunt of pain, but his face must have shown it because Cormac said, “Hey, are you—?” and Barb said, “Oh, my gosh, Sean!”
He meant to say, “I’m fine,” but what came out was “Christ.”
Barb rushed to take the bowl out of his hand, which he held aloft to keep from spilling melted ice cream onto the slipcovers. “What’s happening? Cormac, get him some water!”
Sean slid slowly down until he lay prone across the couch. “I’m all right,” he insisted through clenched teeth. “Just a little back thing.”
“Are you sure it isn’t chest pain?” She slid a pillow under his head.
“It’s better if I’m flat,” he told her, tugging the pillow out. “Not chest pain.”
“Can you breathe okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just my lower back.” It was the first time he’d ever mentioned it to anyone. He never imagined that when he finally did, it would be to a perky picture taker with pink heart earrings. Cormac came in with the water, and Sean told him, “She’d make a good triage nurse.”
“She’s obsessive about keeping her CPR up-to-date.”
Barb gave Cormac an annoyed look. Sean patted her hand. “Good girl.”
As he lay there waiting for the spasm to subside, Barb peppered him with suggestions about MRIs and osteopaths and physical therapy. Sean politely declined all the advice, but asked for some ibuprofen, which she hurried off to find.
“Spin,” said Cormac quietly. “Is this . . . uh, is this related to . . .”
“No. Actually, I’m starting to think . . .” It felt weird to say it out loud. “I think I might have dodged the bullet.”
“Wow,” Cormac breathed. The two of them sat silently, contemplating the implications. Sean was glad Cormac didn’t say something sappy like congratulations. Not having Huntington’s would certainly be great news. But while it would solve one huge problem, cropping up in its place would be a whole lot of smaller ones, which generally fit under the heading of What Now?
Returning with the ibuprofen, Barb insisted again that he see someone about his back.
“I just need some rest,” he told her, downing four tablets with the water.
“But you’re in pain .” She said this as if he needed reminding.
“Yeah. Back pain. I haven’t had a limb hacked off with a rusty machete, Barb. I’ll deal.”
Barb flinched as if she’d been slapped.
“Hey.” Cormac’s face went dark with warning. “She’s trying to help.”
Oh, shit, thought Sean, as he looked at his only real friend in Belham. He’d come and gone from so many friendships over the years, mostly by virtue of geography, sometimes by waning interest. But with the end of his days now likely far in the future, he had a sudden revelation sitting there in the tiniest house in town: You can’t afford to screw this
“And I got the scars to prove it!” Sean laughed and ran his finger across a small white line on his elbow.
“Who’s Herman?”
Cormac put a hand on his wife’s shoulder, his enormous thumb coming up to stroke her cheek. “I’m sorry to have to break it to you this way, honey, but you’re married to him.”
“Herman Munster ?”
“Geez.” Cormac’s face fell in dismay. “Didn’t take you long to make that leap.”
“Man, it’s too obvious!” Sean cackled.
Barb wrung her hands in a spot-on Mrs. Munster imitation and said, “Oh, Herman!” Both men nearly fell out of their chairs laughing.
After dinner they sat on the low couches eating ice cream out of porcelain bowls with Crème glacée in curvy cobalt script around the rims. So un-Cormac-like. Sean grinned—innocently he thought—but Cormac made sure to mention they were a wedding present.
When Sean rose to take his empty bowl to the kitchen, he miscalculated how much effort it would take to hoist himself out of the squishy cushions. His back clenched in response, and he found himself falling backward into the couch. He was thankful that he made no embarrassing grunt of pain, but his face must have shown it because Cormac said, “Hey, are you—?” and Barb said, “Oh, my gosh, Sean!”
He meant to say, “I’m fine,” but what came out was “Christ.”
Barb rushed to take the bowl out of his hand, which he held aloft to keep from spilling melted ice cream onto the slipcovers. “What’s happening? Cormac, get him some water!”
Sean slid slowly down until he lay prone across the couch. “I’m all right,” he insisted through clenched teeth. “Just a little back thing.”
“Are you sure it isn’t chest pain?” She slid a pillow under his head.
“It’s better if I’m flat,” he told her, tugging the pillow out. “Not chest pain.”
“Can you breathe okay?”
“Yeah, it’s just my lower back.” It was the first time he’d ever mentioned it to anyone. He never imagined that when he finally did, it would be to a perky picture taker with pink heart earrings. Cormac came in with the water, and Sean told him, “She’d make a good triage nurse.”
“She’s obsessive about keeping her CPR up-to-date.”
Barb gave Cormac an annoyed look. Sean patted her hand. “Good girl.”
As he lay there waiting for the spasm to subside, Barb peppered him with suggestions about MRIs and osteopaths and physical therapy. Sean politely declined all the advice, but asked for some ibuprofen, which she hurried off to find.
“Spin,” said Cormac quietly. “Is this . . . uh, is this related to . . .”
“No. Actually, I’m starting to think . . .” It felt weird to say it out loud. “I think I might have dodged the bullet.”
“Wow,” Cormac breathed. The two of them sat silently, contemplating the implications. Sean was glad Cormac didn’t say something sappy like congratulations. Not having Huntington’s would certainly be great news. But while it would solve one huge problem, cropping up in its place would be a whole lot of smaller ones, which generally fit under the heading of What Now?
Returning with the ibuprofen, Barb insisted again that he see someone about his back.
“I just need some rest,” he told her, downing four tablets with the water.
“But you’re in pain .” She said this as if he needed reminding.
“Yeah. Back pain. I haven’t had a limb hacked off with a rusty machete, Barb. I’ll deal.”
Barb flinched as if she’d been slapped.
“Hey.” Cormac’s face went dark with warning. “She’s trying to help.”
Oh, shit, thought Sean, as he looked at his only real friend in Belham. He’d come and gone from so many friendships over the years, mostly by virtue of geography, sometimes by waning interest. But with the end of his days now likely far in the future, he had a sudden revelation sitting there in the tiniest house in town: You can’t afford to screw this
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